Page 47 of This Is How It Started
“Yep. No problem.”
Why is it, then, that I think it’s a problem? “Okay, just please send your tarp guy. And I’m expecting you to be here bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“Roger that, boss lady.”
After he clicks off, I reevaluate setting him up with Josie.Roger that, boss lady? Who even talks like that? I glance at the clock. Campbell is stopping by to go over the offer for the house on Liberty.
Last time I spoke to the seller’s agent, there’d been twenty requests for disclosure packets. That doesn’t mean all twenty are making offers, but it’s a good indication of what we’re up against. Chip thinks we should go ten percent over asking, but it sounds low to me given the market. I don’t want to squander Campbell and Jess’s hard-earned money but also don’t want them to lose out on the house.
I hold my nose and dial Niki’s number. We haven’t talked since the Bernal Heights debacle. The woman can hold a grudge. But I suspect she’ll be nice to me because of...Josh. She did, after all, send flowers after the accident, a huge arrangement from a fancy florist on Chestnut.
“Hi, Niki, this is Rachel Ackermann. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you, Rachel? I haven’t seen you in the office in a while. Are you still with Windham?”
I can’t tell whether it’s a dig or a genuine question. To be fair, I would probably think the same of a colleague who hadn’t sold a home in close to a year.
“I’m still there. In fact, I’m calling for some advice.” I pause, trying to gauge her reaction. All I get on the other side of the phone is crickets. “I have clients making a bid on a house on Liberty Street in Dolores Heights. There’s a lot of interest. Chip thinks we should go ten percent over asking. I’m worried it won’t get it done. What do you think?”
“First of all, don’t you think it would’ve been a good idea to ask me if I have a client who may be bidding on the same property?” she says, her voice so withering I have to check the houseplants to make sure they’re still alive.
Give me a break. Everyone knows Niki Sorento doesn’t get out of bed for anything less than a hundred-grand commission. And this ain’t that kind of house.
I hear her tapping on a keyboard in the background. “The one near the intersection of Sanchez?”
I can almost see her brows wing up in distaste as she flips through the house photos. “That would be the one. Do you have an interested party?” I ask just to be a bitch.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” She continues tapping. “Does that third bedroom even have permits?”
“Yes.” I’m tempted to tell her to shove it and hang up. But I trust her opinion more than I do Chip’s. He’s not out there every day like she is.
“The house two blocks down, which is about the same size, went for two thousand a square foot. But that one was fully renovated.” She lets out an audible sigh. “It’s a popular neighborhood, and if your clients fix up the place and this market holds, they’ll make a pretty penny when they decide to sell. I’m guessing at this price point, they’ll be no fewer than fifteen offers. Possibly more.” She continues tapping in the background. This time I can tell she’s working a calculator. “Go fourteen percent over. Not a penny more. You’re welcome.” With that, she hangs up.
I get out my own calculator and do some mathematical gymnastics. Whoo, that’s a lot of money, especially for a house that’s barely livable. But Niki’s right. If Campbell works his magic on the place, it’ll be worth a hefty sum in the future.
There’s a tap on the French doors, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It’s Campbell, who I think in his whole life has only used the front door once or twice. None of the Golds did.
He comes in and makes himself at home at the center island. “You got more of that?” He tilts his head at my coffee.
I pour him a cup and slide it down the counter. “I’ve been crunching numbers for your offer.”
I tell him about the twenty disclosure packets that have already gone out and that I’m expecting at least fifteen offers not including ours.
“Ah jeez.” He rubs his hand down his face.
I stare past him at the pool house. The wind has picked up, and the sky looks ready to open up any minute in a blast of thunder and rain. And still no one from Bleu Construction to batten down the hatches.
“What’s wrong?” Campbell turns around and follows the direction of my gaze.
“Rain. The guys working on the pool house were a no-show today. The foreman promised to send someone over to cover the roof, but here it is”—I look at my watch—“almost noon and no one is here.”
Campbell gets to his feet. “Let me take a look.”
We walk out together. The water in the pool is rippling from the wind, reminding me that it should’ve been covered months ago. The electric motor no longer works, and the cover has to be manually closed. No easy feat. Campbell reads my mind and single-handedly wrestles the heavy vinyl across the pool. I help him fasten down the straps. I’d drag the patio furniture into the pool house but, uh, no roof.
The first drop hits me on the nose. A big wet blob. Soon, the sky is spitting raindrops onto the brick pool deck. Campbell makes a beeline for the garden shed, which is more the size of a two-car garage. He knows his way around the outbuilding better than I do and goes straight for a storage cabinet at the back of the room, where he pulls out a folded silver tarp.
“Grab me some bungie cords from the peg board.” He leaves before he can point me in the right direction.
